


paris blue (all the while you loaned your nights to me)

by lazarov



Series: Paris Blue [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Busking, First Times, M/M, Paris (City), Prostitution, complicated feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarov/pseuds/lazarov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam and Harry visit Paris.  Louis is a prostitute, except for when he isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	paris blue (all the while you loaned your nights to me)

**Author's Note:**

> this is kind of very long have fun stay safe

"I'll grab this one, what do you want?" Liam shouts over the pounding music, standing on his toes to try and stay above the crashing wave of people that's quickly widening the gap between them.  He sees Harry mouth something that looks vaguely like _Stella_ before Harry lets himself be absorbed into the sea.

Liam makes his way to the bar and squeezes up to the rail, self-consciously glancing around.  

" _Un Stella, et un…_ " He's a few drinks deep and his public-school French fails him.  "Gin and tonic?"

The tough-looking bartender just rolls his eyes and sets to pulling Harry's pint.  _Right,_ thinks Liam, feeling embarrassed through his buzz.  _Okay.  No more French tonight_.  He carefully makes his way back across the club, drinks in hand, and somehow manages to find Harry, who's nabbed a table in the corner.  He's tapping away at his phone and glances up with an appreciative nod when Liam sits down.

"Cheers.  Zayn just texted.  He and Niall arrived in Barcelona safe last night - they were too knackered to text," he pauses to take a sip of his pint, "and I'm making plans for us to Skype tomorrow morning before we head out - we'll have to help them sort out their rail passes, the idiots haven't booked 'em yet.  But they say they still want to meet up."

"Brilliant," Liam nods, stabbing at the lime in his glass with a straw.  Niall and Zayn wanted to bum around Spain a few days before meeting them in Paris, to catch a couple Barca matches and _have a few nights to themselves_ (as Harry puts it, usually with batted eyelashes for full effect).  "Don't you think it's a little sick that we've been in Paris for three hours and all we've seen is the inside of a bar?"  

"Is that a gin and tonic?" Harry snorts, ignoring him.  Liam just rolls his eyes and takes a sip, examining the crowd.  He's vaguely disappointed that nobody's wearing black and white striped tops and berets.  He's always had a romantic picture in his head of Paris, he figures everyone does.  Cobblestone streets and old churches and - actually, based on their cab ride to their hotel and a brief walk around the neighbourhood, those parts have been spot-on.  There just haven't been nearly enough berets for his liking.

"They're having a good time?" Liam asks, leaning over and trying to catch a glimpse of Harry's iPhone screen.

"Yeah, yeah.  Apparently all they've done so far is get day-drunk at the beach.  First day there and Niall's already burnt the shit out of his delicate Irish complexion."

Liam snorts a laugh, "Poor bastard."

"Are these seats taken?" Two girls sidle up, drinks in hand.  They're medium-pretty, a little too much eye-makeup, but still - he and Harry are easing their way into drunk, and medium-pretty is _pretty enough_.  One has freckles, and Liam wonders if Harry will let him call dibs.  

"Please," Harry says, offering the seat next to him.  Freckles sits down.  _Knob_ , Liam thinks, then smiles and offers a seat to the Other One ( _Tits?_ he thinks, then, _No, that would be rude._ )

"We heard you talking, are you Australian?" Freckles asks them in an American accent, a little too loudly, then giggles, either drunk or playing drunk for her new audience. They can work with either one of those options, and Liam can see Harry's eyes light up.  _You evil bastard_ , Liam thinks.  If their years of friendship and his years of playing wingman have taught him anything, it's that there's nothing Harry enjoys more than an easy target.

"Aye, sheila, we're just taking a break from 'roo wrangling," Harry says, in some kind of hybrid Australian-Scottish-space-alien mix that makes Liam cringe.  He feels immediately compelled to _stop this madness_ , and cuts him off.

"NO - no.  Not Australian.  British.  English.  He's just messing around," Liam says, trying to get just the right mix of amiableness and exasperation in his voice to keep the girls from getting up and pouring their drinks on Harry's head.  Harry glowers at him in response, mostly for show.  "How about you two?"

They don't seem at all bothered.  Freckles just giggles and responds, "Washington.  State, not, like, White House, obviously."

" _Obviously_ ," the Other One mimics, then adds, "Seattle, though.  It's pretty cool.  Not Paris-cool, but it's okay."

Harry's nodding seriously, like it's the most interesting thing he's heard in his life.  He's good like that, when he wants to he can make a girl feel like the most interesting person in the room.  It's not something he can maintain for long, but he can usually keep the act going til he's got a couple fingers -- _ew, okay, no_.  Liam shakes away that half-finished thought and takes a sip of his (admittedly very uncool) gin and tonic.

"Oh! So rude of me," the Other One exclaims, faux-embarrassed with a hand on her chest, "I'm Kate, that's Jen."  Jen waves a little hello at both of them.

"Liam.  That's Harry."

"Harry with the hair," Kate laughs, and Liam is sure he can see her rub her knee against Harry's under the table.  He's sure that he also makes a somewhat disgusted face in response.

"How long have you guys been in Paris?" Freckly Jen asks, winding a strand of wavy brown hair around her index finger, and Liam can't help but notice how _shiny_ it is.  He realizes at nearly the same instant that if he's beginning to notice how fucking shiny this girl's hair is then the gin must be working.  He also realizes that, in spite of her shiny hair, he doesn't want to bring her back to their hotel room and take off her clothes.

This is meant to be half the fun of going on holiday with your best mate ( _okay, okay, yes - paid for by mum and dad, admittedly_ ), isn't it?  See the sights by day, learn a few facts, stare at a few paintings so they can be the vaguely interesting cultured blokes at uni.  Then get laid at night.  They are _living the dream_ \- or at least whatever interpretation of _the dream_ is generally held by horny 18 year old lads who've newly graduated from sixth form.

"Just arrived today, this morning. We're fresh meat," Harry grins, winking. Freckly Jen laughs, flipping her (shiny) hair over her shoulder.  Kate bites her lip.  Liam rolls his eyes, sucking the dregs out of his glass.

"Cute, we've been here a couple days.  We'll have to show you around?" 

"Absolutely," Harry agrees and, as far as Liam can tell, he seems to be serious. "We've got two mates coming next week, too, you'll have to give us a group discount."  He winks again.

Liam feels suddenly, inexplicably offended that Harry would allow _fucking by night_ to encroach on their _learning and shit by day_ , and stands up, announcing, "I'm getting more drinks.  Would anyone like anything?"

He wheels around and walks toward the bar without waiting for their responses.  _Oh god, I'm the world's first useless fourth wheel_ , he realizes, reaching the dancefloor and fighting his way back across the sea of sweaty bodies.  _I'm Harry Styles' drink fetcher._ He leans against the bar and tries to avoid eye-contact with the muscled bartender he embarrassed himself in front of earlier.  _I'm running away from two attractive-enough girls, and that makes me a massive, massive vagina._   Liam's trying to catch the attention of the other, pretty, female bartender when, from behind him, Liam hears " _Gin-tonic"_ in a (he feels a bit gay admitting it, but _handsome)_ French accent, and thinks _oh, that makes sense._ He whirls around and smacks his head hard into the (also very handsome) head of the bloke standing behind him.  

 _Fucking fuck fuck_ , Liam thinks, panicky.

"Oh, sorry, _j'ai entendu votre,_ uh, _je ne savais pas comment le dire, gin-tonic…"_ He's babbling, trying to in some way explain why he's just spun around and knocked their skulls together and the guy's just fucking _staring_ at him and Liam loses his nerve.  He turns back around to the bar with a quick, "Sorry."

"You're British," the bloke says amusedly with what Liam realizes, over the blaring pulse of the music, is a handsome and suddenly-very-not-French accent.

"Oh," Liam says, turning back around (overly conscious of the position of his head relative to this new person's head). "So are you," he offers uselessly.  This new person is tan and is wearing a white top that skims his slim chest and has a kind of lovely, slightly pointy face and, looking at him, Liam feels weirdly embarrassed to exist, which he has to remind himself is _an insane thing to feel, stop it_.

"I am," the bloke agrees, and Liam is briefly thankful for his generosity.

"I, uh," he offers his hand.  "Liam."

"Louis," he nods, looking Liam up and down, ignoring his outstretched hand.  "You looking for a date tonight, Lee-yum?" He sing-songs his name, and Liam cocks his head to the side, confused.  

"What do you mean, like a-" Liam's cheeks flush embarrassingly and his eyes dart around in hopes that maybe he'll be saved from further embarrassment by Harry and Freckles and Kim or Kelly or whoever -- 

Louis just laughs harshly and rubs at his nose (which had also connected rather hard with Liam's forehead).   "Never mind, mate.  Just fucking with you.  Have a good night, yeah?"  He drops a note in the tip jar, picks up his drink, then slides away from the rail, edging his way back into the crowd.  And just like that, he's gone.

"Um," says Liam helplessly.  He stands awkwardly at the bar alone for a few moments before stepping, empty-handed, back into the throbbing sea of people.

 

 

~

 

"C'mon you," Liam coos, leading Harry down the steps of the club.

"W're leavin' already?" Harry whines.  "But the _girls_."

"The girls have had enough of your Johnny Vegas impression for one night, I think," Liam assures him.  "I don't think they even knew who Johnny Vegas _is,_ really.  Better luck tomorrow."

"But I need to _fuck something_ ," Harry moans.  He's wobbling down the street, hands in his hair, half-manic.  He spins and points a finger at Liam,  "No, no, _I'll tell you what_ , I need to fuck something _French_."

"If you're desperate we'll hollow out a baguette for you when we get back to the room." Liam spins Harry 'round so he's facing the right way and flops a hand across his shoulders to guide him forward.  "Come _on_ , move your legs, there's a good lad."

They've made it a good six feet before a moan floats out of the alleyway they've just passed and Liam and Harry both freeze.

"D'you think w're in Shaun of the Dead right now, Leem?" Harry asks, before leaning into the nearest bin and vomiting.

"Hope not, Haz," Liam whispers, half-joking, before taking two steps backward and tilting his head back so he can glance into the alley.  He makes a good show of being surreptitious, but his heart catches in his throat when he sees the bloke from before, _what's his fucking name again? Louis.  Right, Louis_.  Louis is leaned over, forearms braced against the brick, his face towards Liam.  Louis' eyes are closed and - Liam realizes that somehow he has missed the most important fucking part of this scene - there's some middle aged guy, in an ugly but probably very expensive suit, fucking him from behind.  Clumsily, hurriedly.  Liam stands there with his mouth open just a moment too long, because Louis opens his eyes with a gasp as the guy slams into him just a little too hard, and for a brief second their eyes meet.

"Fuck, okay, we're going," Liam announces loudly, more for his own benefit than for Harry's.  He tears his eyes away and steps forward quickly, past the alley, to gather Harry up from where's he's collapsed against the bin.  There's vomit on his chin, illuminated rather prettily by the Old Paris street lamps, and Liam finds himself laughing quietly, manically.  _Fucking Paris._

"Is it zombies?" Harry asks.  He's half-leaning, half-hanging from the rim of the rubbish bin, and Liam has to pry his fingers off the edge before tossing Harry's right arm over his shoulders.

"No, not zombies, Haz.  But you'd be Nick Frost either way, now, wouldn't you?"

"Nuh-uh," Harry grunts, "I will always be Simon Pegg."  He stops to dry heave and, whilst doubled-over and hanging from an arm wrapped tightly around Liam's throat, he adds for effect, " _Always._ " 

 _Yes, that's probably right_ , Liam thinks from his headlock.  He hoists Harry back up and gets them moving again, trying to keep them shuffling toward their hotel and away from that fucking alleyway and the low groans that are whispering their way out of the dark and crawling up the back of his neck.

 

~

 

"Fucking wake up, it's morning," Liam sing-shouts, ripping open the curtains.

"Oh my GOD," Harry groans, rolling over. "I feel like shit.  Actual shit that has been lying on the sidewalk in the sun.  Then stepped on."

"I have no sympathy for you," Liam admonishes, pulling on a clean pair of boxers.  "It's half-ten. I've gone downstairs and grabbed coffee and breakfast. I've showered.  You've _slept_.  C'mon."  He digs through his luggage for a pair of jeans and pulls them on, then tosses a bag of croissants at Harry's face.

"You're horrible," Harry huffs, forcing himself up and digging into the bag, groaning at the sound of the crinkling paper.  "I'm so fucking hung over, you have no idea."

"I have _some_ idea.  What's the last thing you remember?" Liam asks, in an acceptable approximation to _casually_.  He finds a button-down shirt and slides it on, leaving it half-buttoned as he digs around for socks.  

"I was doing impressions?" Harry guesses, shoving half a croissant in his mouth.  "Maybe.  Or, like.  Was there absinthe?"

"There may have been absinthe, I stopped drinking so I could babysit.  You did get their numbers - do you remember the girls?"

"I always remember the girls," Harry says gravely.

"Right," Liam says. "Get dressed.  We have paintings and churches and history to see."

"Zayn'n'Niall," Harry reminds him around a mouthful of pastry.

"Right, fine, okay.  Get washed and dressed and I'll load up Skype."  Harry grunts an _alright_ and tosses his sheet to the side. Liam shields his eyes just in time and barks, "And put some pants on too, please!" before the bathroom door slams shut.  He leans over to grab his laptop off the floor.

Liam waits until he hears the shower before he flips open his computer.  He thinks for a moment before typing **_male prostitute finder Paris_** into the search bar of his browser, feeling stupid but also, admittedly, feeling a small rush that makes his fingertips and toes tingle.  He clicks through a few bullshit sites before finding a small message board that boasts in broken English, **BEST PARIS SEX REVIEW**.  He tries to use the search function to find what he's looking for, but it asks him to create a username and, obviously, _no fucking way_.  So Liam sits on his bed, clicking through page after page, until the name he's looking for hits him like a slap in the face.  _Louis, 18._

He hesitates, then clicks.

 

**TIGHT ASS, NO COMPLAINTS.  LOOKS YOUNGER THAN 18, CHARGED ME $190 AMERICAN FOR BAREBACK.**

 

**OVERPRICED.  TALKS TOO MUCH, BRITISH ACCENT IS HOT THOUGH.  BLOWJOB FOR 60 EURO.**

 

**LA FELLATION, 70 EURO.  IL Y A RIEN DE SPECIAL.**

**  
**

 

Liam quickly skims through to the bottom of the first page then immediately exits the site.  He's breathing hard and feels hot and panicky and isn't quite sure why.  He senses that this might be one of those things that's buried on the shelf in the back of his head, the one where he places his most embarrassing feelings.  He's not sure which feeling might apply in this situation.  _The handsome guy you met at the bar and were instantly in awe of is a hooker, what are your thoughts, Liam Payne?_ The only thought he can get a handle on for the moment is, _I think I'm going to vomit._

He takes a few moments to swallow that feeling down before loading Skype, and as soon as he's logged in, his computer begins ringing.  He accepts the call, and up pop Niall and Zayn, looking sticky and beachy and relaxed.

"Maaaate," Niall shouts.  Even through the hotel's shitty wifi connection and Niall's shitty webcam resolution Liam can see that Niall is bright red, especially bright against his white tank.

"Jesus, Niall, is your skin falling off?" Liam laughs, trying to ignore how shaky he still feels.  His heartbeat is starting to slow, but his fingertips are still tingling.

"Fuck, man, he's already shedding everywhere," Zayn says, disgusted, giving Niall a friendly shove.  "I feel like fucking _Goldmember_ , there's flakes all over the place.  We're sharing a bed -- I wake up in the morning looking like I've rolled in snow."  The three of them laugh and the bathroom door swings open.  Harry flops onto the bed, a towel wrapped around his waist, and waves at the camera.

"Hi, boys."

"Hellooo!" Niall and Zayn wave back.

"When are you going to be joining us in this _most_ _magnificent_ city?" Harry asks, beginning to shamelessly towel himself off.  Liam pivots his laptop to spare them the view.

"Cheers, mate," Zayn grins at Liam.  "So, we're thinking Thursday?  Today's Saturday or something, right?"

"Yes, today's Saturday.  I don't know why I'm amazed you managed to get your arse on a plane and arrive in another country in one piece, Malik, considering how well you manage to _keep the days of the week straight_ ," Liam says, with love.  Zayn rolls his eyes.  Niall laughs.

"We wanna catch a Barça-Madrid match Wednesday," Niall explains.

"Did you buy tickets yet?" Harry yells from across the room, pulling on trousers with difficulty.

"Not yet," Zayn admits.

" _Buy tickets,_ " Liam and Harry shout in unison, exasperated.  "Good god," Liam adds for emphasis.  

Harry flops back onto the bed, his hair towel-dried and his body, mercifully, dressed.  "If it's easier, Liam and I will book your rail tickets and just e-mail you the details, okay?  You useless bastards?"

"Please," Niall sighs, nodding.  "That would be great."

"You sure you don't want to try for Wednesday night?  Keeping in mind our flights home are booked for Saturday morning."

"Nah, it's fine," Niall shakes his head.  "I'd rather the extra couple days of bikinis, myself."  Zayn nods his agreement.

"Okay!  You two have fun lying on the beach like a couple of lazy arseholes, it's time for us to go see the _motherfucking Eiffel Tower_.  Be safe!"  Harry snaps the lid of Liam's laptop closed and sits up to pull on his shoes, shoving another croissant in his mouth for good measure.  "Let's go, tourist boy."

 

~

 

"Montmartre.  Is.  Amazing."  They're slowly making their way up the hill toward the Basilica, especially slowly because of Harry's fascination with all the shops lining the way.  He spots another one and bounds in, leaving Liam alone on the street to snap photos and people-watch.  After a couple minutes, Harry skips back out and announces, "That one had _doll heads_ and all kinds of crazy shit for sale," he exclaims, dazed.  " _Amazing_.  I love this place?  Can we live here forever?"

"When we're rich and famous," Liam agrees from behind his camera.  He snaps a photo of a very-sweaty and very-happy Harry, who's wearing a grin like a freshly-walked labrador.  "It's like a million degrees out, Haz, you should take off your hat."

"That's precisely why I _shouldn't ever take it off_." Harry slides his beanie off his head to run a hand through his hair, which Liam has to admit is _very very damp_ and is, much like his smile, also equally reminiscent in both look and scent of a freshly-walked labrador.  Harry makes a face and shoves his hat back on. "Yeah, no.  Nope."  They keep climbing up the cobblestone street, gazing around at the very pretty, artsy girls smoking cigarettes out of open windows and the old men carrying home groceries in old-fashioned paper bags (and, being that Montmarte has recently become a prohibitively expensive neighbourhood, the beautiful, shiny cars), and Liam inhales, deep, trying to make as many molecules of this place part of him as he's able. They climb another set of stairs, mercifully in the shade, and when they reach the top Liam stops in his tracks.

"A vineyard in the middle of the city," Liam grins, checking both ways before jogging across the street.  He threads his fingers through the chain link and leans forward, face pressed against the fence.  He inhales deeply, eyes closed.  "That's _amazing_.  In the middle of the _city._   Fucking Paris, man," he says to Harry, who appears to be equally impressed.  In fact, ' _Fucking Paris, Man'_ seems to have become their unofficial mantra for the trip.  Over the course of two days, Liam has somehow switched Harry's Order of Vacation Importance to 1. _learning and shit_ and 2. _sticking your cock in things_.  Liam's so proud he could almost shed a tear.

The day before, they had climbed the Eiffel Tower and wandered around the surrounding area, but it wasn't really Liam's cup of tea.  Instead, it's the little things like this, things like tiny vineyards hidden in plain sight, that he finds make the biggest impression when he's trying to get to know a city.

"I think I could live here," Liam says, dragging his fingers along the fence as they continue their climb.  "Like, forever-forever."

"You'd have to learn French," Harry points out, shading his eyes to get a better look at the arse of a very pretty French girl passing them on the other side of the street.  She's walking along, taking bites out of a baguette, and Liam marvels at the fact that it's _the most French thing he's ever seen_.  "So there's that," Harry adds.

"I already know French,"  Liam says and Harry turns to shoot him a _what the fuck ever_ look.  "I kind of know a little bit of French," he amends. 

They make their way through an open-air market, climb a little further up then-

"Oh," Liam says.

"Wow," Harry agrees.  The Sacré-Cœur Basilica is enormous and impressive and Liam can only imagine how beautiful it would be if it weren't currently mobbed by _thousands of fucking tourists_.  The noise surrounding them is nearly deafening.

"This is lovely, I'm glad we made it up here," says Harry, adding, "I never really thought about it before, but I _really_ like buildings with domes."

"Byzantine architecture," Liam provides.  Harry laughs, slapping him on the shoulder.

"Yes, of course, _Byzantine_.  You, of all people, would know that.  And you wondered why I didn't buy a guidebook!" He hops along the sidewalk as they circle around to the front of the church, then looks up, leaning backwards into a C as he takes it in. "Lovely.  Very, like, white and religious-looking?  But in a good way?  We should get a picture."  He waves over a pretty teenage girl and mimes taking a photo with his own camera, then hands it to her.  She nods, taking a few steps backward, and Harry wraps an arm around Liam's shoulders.  _Click_.  She hands it back with a shy, "Have a nice trip," and runs off to join her family.

"I hear music, do you hear music?" Harry asks suddenly, winding around the side of the church.  Liam follows, trying to catch up.  Being on vacation, away from guitars and microphones and practice with Zayn and Niall has made Harry antsy, in need of _musical stimulation_.  Liam can't begin to describe the noise that came from the shower that morning, as though Harry were trying to make up for missing an entire week of singing in just six minutes.  

They reach the source, and Liam's breath hitches.

"He's good," Harry notes, and Liam barely hears him say it because it's _Louis_ and Liam's brain sounds an alarm like a fire bell.  Louisis leaning against the wall of the Basilica playing a cover of some Van Morrison song surrounded by mothers wearing fanny packs and their beautiful teenage-girls.  Both parties are wearing matching wide-eyed, slack jawed looks of reverence in the face of a _beautiful singing fucking tanned slightly pointy faced -_

" _No,_ " Liam says out loud to his brain and means it.  

"What?" Harry asks, then, "Let's get closer, I can't hear."  And Harry starts toward _him, Louis_ , and before Liam can stop himself he hisses " _NO_ ," again, just a little too loud, and Louis looks up, meeting Liam's eyes.

"Oh," Louis says, stopping mid verse.  His hand is paused a millimetre above the strings of his guitar, which are still quietly resonating. _G-minor_ , Liam's brain tells him.  He mentally swats away the thought.

"Oh," Liam responds, frozen.  "Hello."

" _Hello!_ " Harry says loudly, still a little high on cobblestone and doll heads.  He looks at Liam, "Have we met this person before?"

"He was," Liam starts, but his brain doesn't move fast enough to think of an acceptable response.  "You were?"

"We met at the club.  On Friday," Louis supplies helpfully, a sanitized version of the truth.  He pockets his pick and offers his hand to Harry.  "Hello! Louis."  There's annoyed murmur from the small crowd.

"Harry, cheers," Harry says, shaking his hand, still confused.  He glances between Louis and Liam's faces.  "Was I too drunk?  I'm sorry, I really don't remember -"

"You were too drunk," Liam agrees, opting to take the out as soon as it's offered.  

"Well, my apologies," Harry says to Louis, who's standing there, smiling at Liam more nicely than Liam thinks he deserves at this point.  Then Louis stops smiling at Liam and turns his eyes to Harry, whose words aren't making any sense in Liam's brain.  Until suddenly they _are_ making sense, and before Liam can wave his hands and shout _no no no_ , Harry says, "Come for lunch with us, then, mate?"  

The magic he held over the crowd seems to have worn off and they're already dispersing.  Louis hesitates, glancing at his guitar case appraisingly.  Watching his eyes dance along the coins, Liam can tell that he's doing the math in his head, but after a couple seconds he looks up and says, "Yeah.  Yeah, ok," and Liam's stomach grows limbs and tries to climb out of his body.

Harry helps Louis pack up his things and chats with him about music while Liam stands, uselessly, with his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels.  Finally, after scraping the last of the coins out of the corners, Louis slings his guitar case over his shoulder and the three of them start back down the hill.

"I know a place close by," Louis says, and Harry nods enthusiastically.

"Great, brilliant."

Harry and Louis continue their banter, of which Liam only hears snippets (' _Van Morrison has always been one of my favourites, ever since I heard Wavelength.' 'Oh yeah, the perfect summer song, don't you think?')_ and Liam says nothing, instead concentrating on sorting out the thoughts that are forcing their way through his brain like a hundred elephants trying to squeeze through a doorway at the same time.  _This is insane? Why does seeing him make me so nervous I feel like I'm going to vomit? Why does hearing his voice make me want to curl up and die of embarrassment?_

They arrive at a small bistro that has a name that Liam is fairly sure means the The Hungry Pigs and he thinks _right, of course, lovely_ while stifling the urge to start laughing manically at the fucking situation he's in.  _Right, okay, this is fine?  We are just going to eat lunch with a beautiful not-French male prostitute that Harry thinks is just a fellow fan of Irish blue-eyed soul.  Yes, of course._   And it's at this point, just as they're being seated, that Harry realizes that Liam has had yet to say anything at all for the last fifteen minutes (a fact that Louis had, politely, refrained from pointing out), and asks loudly, "So, what did you two get up to while I was vomiting in the sidewalk?"  Liam winces.

"We bonded over our mutual appreciation for gin and tonics," Louis laughs, and Liam can't help but notice that the laugh is genuine.  Friendly.  As though Liam's the only one who's currently massively uncomfortable.  "Did you know your friend Liam's French is rubbish?"

"I'm aware," Harry nods, grinning.  "So, whereabouts are you from, -- sorry, Louis was it?"

"Yeah, Louis.  I'm from Doncaster, actually.  Yourselves?"  The waiter stops at their table to fill their water glasses and deliver menus. 

"Small-town boy.  Cheshire.  Liam's from Wolverhampton,"  Harry explains, flipping open his menu.

"Wolverhampton," Louis repeats.  He picks his glass of water, takes a sip, then asks, "So how do you two actually know each other, then?"

"We've got this long-distance band thing going.  It's a pain, but we manage.  Our two other mates, actually, are coming to meet up with us in a couple of days," Liam explains.

"A band?"  Louis puts his water glass down and leans in, interested.

"Yeah, small-time thing.  We connected over YouTube, we were all on there singing these solo Kings of Leon covers we recorded in our bathrooms, and it was Zayn's - he's one of the two coming to meet up - it was Zayn's idea to message each of us and try to put something together."

"So, you're in a boy-band?  Is that what you're saying?" 

"Okay - well, yes?  And no?" Liam says helplessly.  He's not sure how to explain, because on one hand yes, _yes we totally are a boy-band_ but on the other hand _it's not like that_.  "We don't --  I mean.  There's no choreographed dancing or any of that shit, we're not trying to be _'NSYNC_.  For the moment we sort of just do acoustic stuff, Niall - our other mate - he plays guitar, and we just sit on stools like we're -"

"Like you're Boys 2 Men," Louis laughs, finishing Liam's sentence.  

"Yes, basically," Harry admits, cracking up.  Liam can't help but join him.  "Would you believe me if I said it was slightly cooler than that?"

"Probably not," Louis shakes his head, still laughing.  

"Fair enough," Harry sighs, wiping the tears out of his eyes.  There's a natural lull in the conversation and the three of them sit quietly for a little while, listening contentedly to the clatter in the kitchen and the animated voices from surrounding tables.  It's a comfortable silence.

"How about you, then?  How'd you end up in Paris?" Liam asks as he glances over the menu.

"I've been here a couple months now.  Needed to escape home, you could say it was sort of a _dire_ situation," Louis explains.  He leans back and gestures around himself, at the people eating Roquefort sandwiches and the dark panelled wood of the restaurant and the Toulouse-Lautrec prints on the walls. "Paris seemed like the romantic choice, I guess."

"Isn't it just," Harry agrees dreamily, gazing past Liam's head out the window.

Lunch goes smoothly, unremarkably, just friendly banter and stories about home.  Louis is, Liam has to admit, _charming_.  Liam catches himself thinking ' _He must make a lot of money, being that charming,_ ' as he observes an enthusiastic, animated discussion between Louis and Harry on the hazards of busking.  The thought feels bitter and cruel and he immediately regrets it.  

At Harry's insistence, he and Liam pick up Louis' bill, to, as Harry explains it, "make up for prior rudeness slash drunkenness." Liam can't help but wonder why, if that's the case, he's paying for half of Louis' salad.  On their way out the door, before splitting in opposite directions (Liam and Harry are headed down to check out the Moulin Rouge, Louis has to get back to busking), Harry asks, "Louis, can I grab your number?  We should meet up again, friendly faces and all."

Louis glances at Liam for permission.  Liam shrugs, _do what you want_.  "Yeah, yeah. 'Course.  Here's my mobile," he pulls a pen out of his pocket and scribbles a number down on a scrap receipt, then hands both over to Harry.

"Cheers," says Harry, writing on a spare Batobus tour booklet, "Here's mine, there's Liam's."  Liam opens his mouth to protest, but shuts it.  There's no point.  They exchange quick goodbyes, Louis thanking them one more time for lunch, then part ways.

"You were pretty sour back there," says Harry, carefully, after a few blocks.  "What's your deal?"

"Sorry," Liam says, but doesn't bother offering an explanation.  He doesn't even know what the truth might be.  They wander around Pigalle for a while, and while they're stopped in a sweets shop Liam's phone buzzes.  He unlocks his screen.

 

**_hey, it's louis.  if it was inappropriate for me to come to lunch today, i sincerely apologize.  it was just nice to hear some familiar accents, i guess i'm a little homesick_ **

**_  
_ **

 

Liam looks up, glancing around for Harry.  He spies him in the corner, deliberating very seriously over taffy flavours.  Liam taps out a reply:

 

**_no, it was fine.  i was the rude one today, i'm sorry._ **

 

He hits send, and almost instantly his phone buzzes and the screen updates,

 

**_can i meet you for breakfast tomorrow? if that's weird you can say no_**

**_  
_ **

 

and in spite of himself, Liam responds,

 

**_yeah, ok.  does 9 work for you?_**

 

~

 

"Were you working last night?" Liam asks awkwardly, not sure if he's being impolite.  They're sitting at a sidewalk table at the first cafe they found, about thirty steps from Liam's hotel. Louis just nods, as though he's been asked about something as menial as a football match and takes a bite out of a piece of buttered bread.

"Yeah, I was working last night," he washes his mouthful down with a gulp of coffee. "Breakfast's still on you, though." He winks, and Liam forces a laugh.

"So," Liam takes a sip of his coffee, trying to appear cool but also mostly just trying to give himself a moment to ease his anxiety, "When I ran into you at the club.  Were you, like, working?"

Louis grins at him, spreading jam onto a slice of baguette.  He stuffs it into his mouth and answers, mouth full, lazily chewing around his words, "Not really.  Kind of my self-appointed night off."

"What do you mean?" Liam asks and immediately, involuntarily, pictures Louis bent over with his shirt rucked up and his trousers yanked down, and maybe his face betrays him, because Louis starts laughing.

"Oh, you mean why was I getting fucked in the alley?"  A couple of other cafe patrons turn to look at them and Liam wonders what it would be like to die of embarrassment.  _Would there be any warning, or would I just, like, tip over onto the ground with my tongue sticking out?_   Louis ignores Liam's nervous fidgeting and continues, his voice slightly lowered, "That club, I know the owner.  I drink for free as long as I give him a freebie at the end of the night in return."  He shrugs.

"O-oh," Liam falters, and he's not sure if he wanted those details, but he knows some strange, hidden part of him kind of _needed_ them.  Liam decides for the moment to shelve that part of himself away, in the back of his head, where he keeps other things that confuse him and make him feel uncomfortable and desperate.  He finds a nice spot next to _feelings caused by birthday parties that nobody showed up to_ and _feelings caused by those sounds girls make in Japanese porn_.

"He likes it when I make some noise," Louis offers, and Liam is willing to accept that it's an apology of sorts.  Louis is blushing a little, embarrassed, and continues,  "The alley was just -- he has a wife, kids, at home.  I don't know, I mean, obviously you weren't supposed to see that.  I'm sorry you saw that."  Louis pulls out a pack of cigarettes and gestures, _do you mind?_ Liam shakes his head.  _Go ahead._

They sit in silence for a while, Louis smoking and Liam sipping at his coffee, bread and butter and jam lying ignored in the centre of the table.  

"So, when you _are_ working…" Liam begins, but he doesn't know how to finish his thought.  He lamely settles on, "How does that work?"

Louis takes another puff of his cigarette and holds the smoke in longer than necessary, thinking.  He exhales.  "I mean, I guess you could say it's my night job?  I busk during the day, and the busking's actually pretty good money as long as I clear out my guitar case every half hour or so."  Liam raises an eyebrow. "You've gotta clear it out so it looks like nobody's been giving you much money -- I empty it and leave maybe five euros and change kicking around in there.  Makes the tourists feel bad for you, they're more likely to toss in some coin if they think you're having a slow day," Louis explains, talking animatedly with his hands and waving his cigarette through the air.  Ash falls in the jam.

"That makes sense," Liam nods.

"Plus, of course, my pretty face," Louis adds with a smile, and Liam knows that smile, it's the smile that he gives girls when he's testing the waters and he thinks _oh_.  There are butterflies in his stomach and he wishes he could stomp them into the dirt but instead he just offers a smile back, though he's not sure whether he's testing the waters (he might be jumping into the deep end with cement blocks chained to his feet).

"My _night job_ , well.  I keep to nightclubs, rotate around from local hangouts to touristy places.  The tourists freak me out a little, not as safe," he pauses, flicking his ash onto the sidewalk.  "Not that either option is totally safe, but.  Tourists tend to think they can _get away with murder_ , if you will.  Plus I book some dates online, try to keep my diary full just in case it's a slow night."  

Liam's mouth is dry.  He takes a sip of his now-tepid coffee, then says, "I thought Paris was sort of like Amsterdam.  Not legal, but, like, aren't there neighbourhoods and all that for that kind of -- stuff?"

"I mean, there are red light districts around here, but it's not really my thing, you know?  Pigalle is sort of lame and mostly for picking up girls - if I try to sell around there, everyone just thinks I'm a john.  Or, more often than not, they think I'm some kid looking for a free pair of tits to stare at," he rolls his eyes, exhaling a plume of smoke, then adds, "My age is kind of a hindrance, you'd be surprised.  There's also the Bois, which, I don't know - work can be slow there if you're picky like I am.  A few slow nights in the Bois and suddenly you're willing to be sucked off by some old bum for twenty euros and a smile.  I try to avoid that kind of desperation."  Louis laughs hollowly.

"That's," Liam idly rips at a baguette slice, trying to find an acceptable thing to say that will encapsulate the sick, jealous feeling in his stomach.  The waiter returns to refill their cups and he settles on, "Fucked up."

"Yeah," Louis nods, smiling a little in spite of (or maybe because of) Liam's discomfort.  He takes a sip of his coffee.  "Yeah, I s'pose it is."

Liam's phone buzzes in his pocket and he fully intends to ignore it but Louis raises an eyebrow.  "Answer it, then."  Liam pulls it out and unlocks the screen and, lo and behold, it's a text  from Harry.

 

 

**_where are you?  are you dead?_**

**_  
_ **

 

Liam thinks for a moment before tapping out what he hopes is an appropriate response.

 

**_i'm with louis from montmartre, remember him?  we're eating breakfast. come meet us?_ **

**_  
_ **

 

"Are you inviting him to breakfast?" Louis asks, poking his head across the table to read Liam's text upside-down.  He shoots Liam a smirk, "I thought this was a date - three's a crowd, mate."

"Um," Liam says.

"Sorry, force of habit," Louis amends, and somehow the gentleness in his voice makes Liam flush more than the teasing itself did.  Liam's phone buzzes.

 

**_nah too hungover meet me at the hotel at noon for more tourist shit_**

**_  
_ **

 

Buzz.

 

**_say hi for me though_**

**_  
_ **

 

Buzz.

 

 

**_and bring food_**

**_  
_ **

 

"You've got me to yourself for a little while, looks like," Liam says, slipping his phone back in his pocket. "What time is it?"  When he looks up, Louis is grinning at him like he's told a clever joke and is waiting for Liam to laugh at the punchline.  "What?" Liam asks.

"I'm glad we ran into each other, is all," Louis says, leaning back in his chair.

"Yeah, no, me too," Liam admits, frowning.  "I'm sorry for - I'm sorry for being a prick yesterday.  I was just _surprised_ , that's all, and, I don't know, you have to admit that it's a little weird for me?  After, you know," he stumbles on his words.

" _After_ ," Louis nods sagely.  "I understand.  Totally."

Liam pays the bill and lets Louis lead him through the streets on a mini-tour, pointing out the pubs where you can order a drink in English without getting screwed on the bill and the restaurants that serve a mean croque-monsieur.  Louis leaves Liam on the sidewalk and hops into a shop, popping back out a minute later with two small cups of gelato.

" _Cassis_ ," he lifts one cup filled with dark-purple ice cream, "or amaretto?" 

"What's _cassis?_ " Liam asks, taking the former.  "Cheers."  He figures, if there's a time to be adventurous, now's as good a time as any.

"Blackcurrant." Louis licks a drip off of the side of his thumb.  "It's good, you'll like it."

They keep walking, and Liam realizes that they're practically underneath the Eiffel Tower.  "As embarrassing as it is, I didn't realize that _that_ -" he points at the tower with his spoon, "was right there until about three seconds ago."

"It was totally unintentional, I swear," says Louis, amused.  "I'm a little embarrassed myself, actually.  I mean, this probably seems a little _precious_ , doesn't it?  Taking you for ice cream at the Eiffel Tower?"

"A little precious," Liam admits, adding, "you know, _coming from your type_."  It's meant to be a friendly jab, but Liam's face gets hot.  _This is running dangerously close to flirting.  You are eating ice cream with a spoon under the Eiffel Tower with a very handsome, very tan young man.  Get your shit together, Payne._

"Ouch," says Louis, playing wounded.  "Liam, I may be a whore, but I have _feelings_."  Liam rolls his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Liam apologizes.  "I shouldn't joke."  The temperature of the conversation drops, and Louis stops walking, turning to face Liam.

"Look, it's not like - it's not like I got stuck in Paris and just started hooking out of desperation," Louis explains carefully.  "I used to do it back home, in Doncaster.  Post on Craigslist and that.  I guess it's like, you get used to the idea of easy money, you know? It's addictive. I make more in an evening doing what I do now than I could working a week at some shit fast-food job. And I know it sounds crazy but, like, after doing this a few months, the other option seems more exploitative to me.  Making £6 an hour to wear a hair net and clean toilets, I mean."

"Still," Liam says.  It's the most convincing argument he has, because he can't think of anything else to say.  All Liam knows is that _this_ _isn't a joke_ , and it worries him that Louis doesn't see it.  Louis just laughs.

"Unless you're willing to whisk me away and be my Richard Gere, of course?"  He suggests, and Liam rolls his eyes, sighing.

"Never -- you'd make a terrible Julia Roberts."

 

~

 

"I love Vermeer," Liam sighs, tilting his head to the side.  Harry mimics him, squinting.

"It's just…" Harry says, leaning in and narrowing his eyes even further.  "It's just so _small_.  Everything's so much smaller than you think it'll be."

"Maybe we should steer clear of the Mona Lisa to save you further disappointment," Liam smirks, moving on from _The Astronomer_ (which, Liam has to admit, is vaguely disappointing in person the way things you build up in your head always seem to be) to an abstract painting by some Flemish artist depicting The Pietà.

"What… the hell," Harry says grimly, sliding over next to Liam, "is that."

"Pietà.  I've always loved these," Liam explains, gesturing fondly at the painting.  "She's holding her son's dead body, it's just, like, the ultimate portrayal of sorrow, you know?"

"You're not even Catholic," says Harry, rolling his eyes.  He moves to the next piece, exclaiming that the woman in the painting has "better tits than Keeley Hazell," and Liam thinks that maybe their excursion to the Louvre has been lost on Harry -- his newfound enthusiasm for _learning and shit by day_ must be grown through baby steps, and the Louvre may have been too much too quick.  Within moments of arriving, Liam had nearly died of embarrassment when Harry made him wave over another tourist to take a picture of the two of them pretending to lean on the glass pyramid.

"So how was your date this morning?" Harry asks, rocking on his heels in front of a Caravaggio painting of a gypsy girl reading a boy's palm.

"Fuck off," Liam says, examining the brushstrokes, wondering distractedly what his own love line would say at this point.

"Really though, _and do tell me if I'm wrong, Liam Payne_ ," Harry says, lapsing into sing-song, "but that was a little bit of a date.  I wasn't _that_ tired this morning, I know what's up.  I know when I'm not invited."

"It's not like that," Liam sighs.  As if to spite him, his phone goes off.

 

**_i'm taking you for a night out on the town tomorrow.  and by a night out on the town, i mean i'm picking you up at noon._ **

 

"Well if you don't want him," Harry continues, catching the grin that spreads across Liam's face, "I do.  Because that kid can sing, and we need a fifth."

"We don't need a fifth," Liam begins, but he already knows what's coming:

"'N SYNC," Harry begins loudly, listing on his fingers.  The other tourists look huffily over their shoulders at the two of them as they pass, hissing _shhhh_ in disgust, but he persists. "Backstreet Boys, New Kids on the Block, fucking, _fucking_ _Five._ "

"Blue have four, so do McFly," Liam protests, mostly just to play devil's advocate and rile Harry up, but Harry pushes on.

"I just think it's good luck, that's all.  Kismet.   _I_ like him, and  _you_ clearly like him.  So.  Why the fuck not?"  Harry throws his hands in the air and stalks off towards the gift shop.  _Why the fuck not indeed_ , thinks Liam.

 

~

 

"This… is beautiful," Liam sighs, walking through the wrought-iron gates and feeling as though they could very well be a portal to another dimension.

" _Le Jardin du Luxembourg_ , it's romantic as shit," Louis agrees.  They walk along the gravel, Louis kicking at the occasional rock with his (artfully) beat-up plimsolls.  Liam inhales, tries to take it all in.  The _Jardin du Luxembourg_ is a massive expanse of grass and gravel and people.  The castle is beautiful, the sculptures are beautiful, all of it bathed in afternoon light is fucking _beautiful_.  They walk in silence for a while, taking turns to occasionally point out an unusual sculpture or an extremely obvious tourist.  Liam is particularly good at catching socks and birkenstocks.  

"I almost feel bad being here without Harry, I swore I'd drag him to all the truly touristy spots," Liam laughs, watching a young French girl loudly and aggressively scold an American couple for lying on the grass.  He pulls out his camera, suddenly very glad that he brought his pocket-sized digital rather than his pretentious, touristy DSLR.  "This really is lovely though.  Thanks for bringing me."

He surreptitiously snaps a picture of the palace and the grounds and manages to catch Louis in the corner of the frame, his face haloed by sunlight, half-turned toward the camera and smiling.  He immediately flicks into _view pictures_ on his camera, and his heart hurts a little when he zooms in.  

"It's not weird that I brought you here?" Louis asks as they continue along the path.  Liam has to consider the question longer than he was probably supposed to.  _Yes, okay, I'm basically on an unofficial date right now.  With a bloke.  A handsome bloke.  A handsome blokey prostitute._   He puts his brain on _pause_ for a few more seconds, trying to sort out the various threads and baubles of thought tangled in his head.  _Why isn't this weird._

"I'm not sure it's weird," Liam offers helplessly.  "I mean.  In theory.  Maybe."

"I don't know you," Louis says, and Liam isn't sure where he's headed with that statement.

"Yeah."

"You don't know me."

"Right," Liam says, confused.

"Okay." Louis just nods, seemingly satisfied. They walk in silence a while longer, passing (as Louis the Tour Guide points out) the Medici fountain.  The sound of the water tunes out the clang of the confusion knocking around in Liam's head and he's immediately thankful for it.  They move wordlessly to sit on the edge and Louis leans over to drag his hand through the pool, eyes focused on the water.  "I know it's a little late to ask, but.  Are you even, like…"

"No," Liam admits, a little too quickly.  _No, not usually_ , he thinks.  _Not for a while._   He thinks about the shelf of restricted thoughts in the back of his head and has to admit to himself that maybe, just maybe, _feelings about boys_ is sitting there, collecting dust.  He reddens.

"I'm not," Louis starts, shifting stiffly on the stone ledge.  "I mean, just because I sometimes… A lot of the time, it's these married guys who want to watch this skinny young kid fuck their wife, you know?  It's not always -" And Liam wonders why the fuck they're sitting here trying to rationalize these things to each other and themselves while they're in _the most fucking romantic park Liam's ever seen_ , and he just wishes Louis would _shut the fuck up already_.

"Stop it," Liam says, startling himself. 

"Okay," Louis agrees immediately.

"Let's keep walking."

"Yes.  Yeah, okay."  They get up, and Liam feels tempted to thread his fingers through Louis' but he fights the feeling back onto his shelf.  Instead, he hooks his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans and wonders if the fact that Louis' thumbs are similarly occupied _means anything_.  Then he thinks to himself, _stop being a fifteen year old girl, oh god._

They walk for a while longer before they pass another statue.  This time, Louis stops them.

" _La Bocca della Verita_ ," Louis notes, looking up at it with an expression that Liam can only describe as reverence, hand shielding his eyes from the sun.  "The Mouth of Truth."

Liam stops and looks up too, more impressed by Louis' Italian accent than by the statue itself, which is mostly unremarkable.  A nude woman wearing a boring smile sits with her hand in the mouth of an ugly face-shaped fountain.  The statue is nothing special, a little on the small side, though Liam has to admit that the fountain itself is a little disturbing, all blank eyes and Medusa-like hair.

"This one's just a replica, but legend has it that if you put your hand in its mouth and tell a lie, it bites it off," Louis continues, standing on his toes in an attempt to peer into the hole. "Your hand, I mean."

"You sound like you believe it," Liam notes, following Louis' lead and standing on tiptoe.  Maybe it's a trick of the light, but he has to admit the throat seems ominous.

"Maybe I do,"  Louis says, catching his eye, and Liam suddenly realizes how serious he is.

"Oh," Liam says, "Um. You do?  Really?"  He isn't sure what to say, not only because the idea sounds ridiculous but also because he doesn't want to let the fact that he finds it ridiculous show and -- _ruin my chances?_ Liam thinks, completely mystified by himself.  _Chances of_ _what exactly?_ But Louis just stands there, frowning at him, so he blurts out the only thing he can think of: "Climb up there and put your hand in its mouth, then."

"What?" Louis scoffs.  "That's stupid, we'll get arrested."  He starts to walk away but Liam holds his ground.

"I mean it.  Put your hand in the Mouth of Truth."

"Don't," Louis turns back around, brow twisted into an expression that Liam can't read but that scares him and eggs him on all the same.

"Do it," Liam says again, firmly but not unkindly.  His heart is beating fast and he's not even sure where he's going with this but suddenly it feels absolutely necessary, absolutely fucking _mandatory_ , for this to happen right this second.  Louis stares at him, incredulous and furious, for a beat.  Then, without a word, he climbs up.

He sticks his hand into the mouth, but the hole's a little too small, and he can only cram his fingers in, all curled-up.  Louis shouts down, "You fucking happy now?"

Liam knows this is an opportunity, and he doesn't waste any time.

"Were you working last night?"

"Yes," Louis answers, impatient, and, in spite of anticipating the answer, Liam's heart aches and starts beating faster.

"Are you happy doing what you do?" Liam asks, loudly, not giving a shit if the other tourists around them are listening in.

"What?" Louis hisses, full-on angry now.

"That's not an answer."

Louis stares at him, eyes hard and unreadable.  He opens his mouth, then shuts it.  Opens it again.  "No."  He starts to pull his ( _intact_ , Liam notices, before realizing that _of course they fucking are_ ) fingers out of the mouth but Liam shouts -

" _Don't move._ " Liam feels like his mouth is moving a million times faster than his brain and his brain is racing to catch up and screaming at him _you don't have any right_ and _you don't even fucking know each other_ and _this is a lot of bullshit caused by boy feelings_ and his blood is pounding in his ears.  There's about thirty tourists standing around watching them now, whether out of morbid curiosity or what, Liam's not sure.  His ears are red and he has to force himself not to break eye contact with Louis when he asks, "Would you stop if I asked you to?"

Louis just stares at him blankly, for what feels like a million years, before finally saying, "I don't know."  And it must be true, Liam realizes, because Louis gently pulls his fingers out of the statue's mouth, jumps back down to the ground, and walks away, spitting a "fuck you" over his shoulder.

 

~

 

Liam lets Harry head to the bar on his own (not quite on his own -- he's meeting up with Freckly Jen and Kate the Other One), choosing instead to stay in the room and mope.  Lying on top of the sheets with nothing but pants on, Liam tries to play it cool for as long as he's able.  But midnight rolls around, then half-past, and he finds himself grabbing his phone off the bedside table.

 

**_i'm so sorry_**

**_  
_ **

 

He hits send before he can reconsider, then tosses his phone to the foot of the bed so that he doesn't sit there _staring_ at it.  Thirty seconds later, his phone buzzes, and he nearly launches himself across the mattress to open his lockscreen.

 

**_you should be._ **

 

 

 _Okay, that hurts a little_ , but Liam wonders whether or not he should be encouraged by the quick response.  This time, he stops and (over)thinks before sending.  He wants his response to convey exactly the right mix of _I'm a total idiot, I'm so sorry_ and _This is confusing for me but oh god I really like you I hope you know that_.  But instead, Liam just taps:

 

**_can we meet up tonight?_**

**_  
_ **

 

Louis doesn't respond as quickly this time, and Liam finds himself awkwardly pacing back and forth on the carpet, reminding himself that _this is some lad you met on vacation, you're not asking him to prom_.  He rifles through his luggage to find his camera, sits on the corner of the bed, and presses review.  He's staring at the screen, zoomed in on the lower corner, filling the frame with Louis' hair and smile and skin, when his phone buzzes again.

 

**_can't, working._ **

 

And Liam stands back up, frozen in the middle of his hotel room, before he feels something burn its way out of his stomach and into his chest and he has to run to the bathroom, where he chokes bile into the toilet, his phone still clutched in his hand and his camera knocked to the floor.

 

 

~

 

The next day, while shopping along the Champs with Harry, Liam allows himself to be pathetic.  He sends six texts ( _because,_ he thinks bitterly, _any more would just seem desperate_ ).

 

1:43 pm.

 

**_i'm really sorry_**

**_  
_ **

 

1:44 pm.

 

 

**_can we meet up?  i want to apologize_**

**_  
_ **

 

2:15 pm.

 

 

**_i really like you and i'm sorry for being a prick, you didn't deserve that_**

**_  
_ **

 

4:00 pm.

 

 

**_can we please just start over?  because i really want to start over_ **

**_  
_ **

 

4:02 pm.

 

**_not that you don't deserve to be mad, you totally deserve to hate me.  but i want to make you… not-hate me._ **

 

4:03 pm.

 

**_if you'll let me_**

**_  
_ **

 

He doesn't receive a response, and Liam isn't sure whether or not he's willing to accept that he'll never talk to Louis again.  It doesn't agree with the sappy fucking embarrassing daydreams he's been having, daydreams of walks in the park with intertwined fingers and cold toes pressed together under the blankets on foggy mornings.

 

~

 

Niall and Zayn arrive Thursday, each of them in one piece, though Zayn's managed to get himself a burn to match Niall's.  

"You know, you're not supposed to get a lot of sun, let alone burn the absolute shit out of your skin, when you've got tattoos," Liam snorts, pulling Zayn into a hug.  He and Niall look absolutely worn out.

"Not my fault, man," Zayn laughs.  "The _girls_ , the girls kept us glued to the beach."

"It was a magnificent sight," Niall sighs fondly.  "God, I hate rail travel."

They manage to nab a taxi that will fit all four of them plus luggage, and make their way to the hotel.  The plan is to sneak them into Liam and Harry's room and let them crash on the floor for the last two nights of the trip, rather than paying for an extra.  They drop their suitcases off, then head out.

"What's the plan?" Liam asks, snapping photos of Niall and Zayn as they gaze around at the shops and trees and people that line the street that they're currently making their way down.

"I want to take them to see the vineyard," Harry grins, then turns to the other two, "I don't want to ruin it.  _You'll see_.  A fucking vineyard.  _Fucking Paris!_ " For Harry, that's an explanation.  Liam gets a sour feeling in his stomach.

"Really?" He attempts.  "What about the Eiffel Tower?"

"We can see that tomorrow, fuck the Eiffel Tower.  I want them to see the Basilica, too.  And Louis!" He turns to Niall and Zayn again, and explains, "Louis is going to be our fifth."  Niall and Zayn nod, confused.

"Fifth?" Niall asks.  "Where'd you find him?"

"He busks!" Harry's practically bouncing down the street, excited to show them all the things he's discovered over the past few days, and Liam can't help but smile a little.  He's fucking lovely that way - he's the least pretentious person Liam knows, so eager to share his world with others instead of keeping things his own little secret.  Harry's still talking quickly (or at least what passes for quickly when it's Harry), "He busks way up on the hill at Mon- what's it called again Liam? - _OH_ , right, right, Montmartre, up at the Basilica, and I think he'd fit in?  He's English, he's just here in Paris for a while, like, getting away from it all I guess?  I don't know.  Liam would know, ask Liam."  And both Zayn's and Niall's exhausted eyes turn towards him.

Liam shrugs, hands in his pockets. "I don't.  I mean, I haven't asked.  I don't know if he wants to go back."  

And Zayn's and Niall's eyes roll back in unison to Harry, who continues, "Anyway, I texted him this morning and he didn't respond, so he probably doesn't know we're coming, but I figure we'll surprise him and take him to supper or something."

Zayn and Niall marvel at the vineyard enthusiastically enough to satisfy Harry ( _amazing, right?  don't you think that's amazing?_ ), and before long they're making their way up to the Basilica.

"Harry's really taken to Paris, hasn't he?" Niall asks Liam quietly as they climb.  

"Yeah, he really has," Liam sighs.  The closer they get to the Basilica, the more intensely the butterflies in his stomach start to swirl.  He thinks he can feel them trying to climb up his throat.

When they finally get there, Louis has just finished and is just packing up his case.

"Lou!" Harry shouts, starting Louis.  He drops one of the notes that he's just picked up out of his case, and it swirls in the wind.  He doesn't bother going after it, just locks eyes with Liam, stock-still.  Harry jogs up.  "I guess we just missed you!  This is Zayn, Niall."  Louis shakes away the fury that's spread across his face and smiles at each in turn, shaking their hands.

"Between Harry and Liam we've heard all about you," Zayn says, smiling.  Niall nods.

"Yeah, loads," he agrees.

"Well, I don't know what to say," Louis says, clicking his guitar case shut.  He flashes Liam a dark look, "Hopefully it's been good things.  Liam, do you mind if we chat a moment?"  And Liam doesn't know what to do, so he mutely follows Louis around the corner.

They duck into an alley and Louis slams Liam against the stone wall.  " _You bring your friends to check out the_ _hooker with a heart of gold you've befriended?  Is that what this is?  Show and tell?"_   Liam squirms, trying to loosen Louis' grip on his hoodie.

"No, no, _fuck_ , no," he insists, placing his hands on Louis' shoulders.  "I swear, that's not - I, _we,_ wanted them to hear you _sing_!  I fucking swear."  Louis' grip loosens, and Liam takes the opportunity to pull him into a tight hug.  He whispers in his ear, fiercely, "I promise, okay?  I haven't told them any of that.  I would never, ever fucking tell them _any_ of that without your permission."  They stand there for a while, clasped together and breathing hard, until he feels Louis' arms snake around him.

"Okay," Louis says quietly, and Liam is fairly sure he can he hear the gears in his head start to slow down. "Okay.  I'm sorry - I don't know why - it shouldn't matter, and I'm sorry.  It's embarrassing.  S'fucking stupid."

"It's not stupid."  He pushes Louis back a few inches so he can look him in the eyes.  " _I'm_ sorry, I shouldn't have let us just show up like this but I just missed you, and-- it's not stupid, okay?"  Before he can even stop to let his brain consider whether or not this is _okay_ or _appropriate_ , Liam pulls Louis back into a hug and presses a kiss to the corner of his jaw, under his left ear.  It's meant to be comforting, it's supposed to help ground him, but Louis yanks his head away and his eyes harden, eyes burning into Liam's.  They stare at each other for a few seconds, and Liam sinks into the wall, legs buckling a little, before Louis quickly, roughly, leans in and kisses him.  His mouth slides open and he pushes the tip of his tongue between Liam's lips, and Liam doesn't bother worrying about the fact that he's never done anything like this before and that maybe there are people watching because, instead, his hands snake up to grip Louis' hair and drag him closer and Liam realizes that he's gone hard, just from Louis fucking _kissing_ him he's hard and -

Louis has torn his mouth away from Liam's and is walking quickly away, hands shoved in his pockets, pushing past the gawkers at the mouth of the alley.  Liam slides down to sit on the cobblestone and bangs his head against the wall, once, hard, to try and regain focus.  His phone buzzes,

 

**pont de l'alma midnight tomorrow**

**  
**

 

and all he can muster is a whispered, "Well, fuck me."  

 

 

~

 

"I'm going out," Liam announces, and doesn't offer any further explanation.  The lads don't ask.

Instead of taking the metro, Liam decides to walk to the bridge from the hotel, hands shoved in his pockets and hood flipped up over his head.  It's an attempt to give himself time to think, to give himself a pep talk and convince himself to _harden the fuck up,_ because he's nervous, so nervous that ten minutes into his walk he pops into a convenience store and buys a pack of cigarettes, pointing at the cheapest pack of menthols behind the counter.  When he steps back onto the sidewalk and lights one, the nicotine rushes to his brain and Liam immediately feels lighter (though his hands are still tensed into involuntary fists that won't respond to any of the signals he sends, begging them to flex).  He starts back along the street, towards the Pont, and Liam can't help but think that it's pretty fucking grim that Louis has told him to meet him at the same bridge as where Lady Di died.  Somehow, Liam feels that maybe he, too, is slowly shuffling his way toward his own brutal demise.  Or, maybe, just toward the demise of his _sanity_ , because this is _insane._   _Liam Payne,_ he thinks to himself, because thinking in third person is easier for him when he's trying to sift his way through his most massive problems, _Liam Payne, what exactly do you want from this boy?  Are you even gay?  Are you aware that most people don't fuck up their whole life over fleeting, confusing feelings?  How are the lads going to react to this?_ And Liam thinks, hard.  It takes him three hundred yards and the rest of his cigarette to figure out the answers.

 _I know I want to maybe kiss him again.  And get to get to know him better.  And help him, if he'll let me.  I don't think I'm gay and I'm not sure it's relevant at this point - I like_ him _.  And there's a chance this might not fuck up my whole life.  It might fuck up parts of it, but it might also make me happier in the right ways? I can't pretend I don't care what the lads will think - I'm a coward, I honestly care so fucking much what they think.  But I also think they love me and that they'll deal with it._

He finds the bridge at 23:56, but Louis is late and it starts to pour.  Liam tells himself he'll wait til fourteen-minutes-past, because that seems like the maximum amount of time to keep someone waiting when you've asked someone to meet you on a bridge at midnight in the middle of a massive downpour, _no-questions-asked_.  

After twelve and a half, he sees Louis's stalking toward him through the rain.

"It's raining, this is ridiculous," Liam shouts when he senses Louis is within earshot, gripping the railing and leaning over the edge to watch the rushing water below.  He feels a little manic.  "It's raining like I'm in a _fucking romantic comedy,_ except I don't think this is very funny, and I'm on a bridge in _fucking Paris_ with, with-"

"With some fucking prostitute you met at a bar," Louis finishes for him, yelling over the clatter of the rain, but somehow his voice is soft and warm, missing the malice from the day before.  Liam wraps his arms around himself and Louis takes a tentative step towards him.  "I thought about what you asked me."

"What did I ask you?" Liam's eyes are still focused on the Seine and he wonders what it would feel like to allow yourself to just be consumed by cold, dark, rushing water.  He imagines it might be comforting, really, to surrender yourself to something bigger, faster, stronger than yourself.

"Just, -- you don't know me," Louis says, running a hand through his soaking wet hair, slicking it back and out of his eyes.  Liam says nothing.  Louis continues, "And I don't know you."  Liam turns around slowly and leans against the rail, briefly meeting Louis' eyes.

"Okay," he says quietly (maybe too quietly for Louis to hear over the rain). He looks back down at his feet.

"But I would." Louis takes another step and Liam watches the toes of his soaking-wet trainers bump against his own.  He feels fingers under his chin, lifting his face up so their eyes meet, and he sees that Louis' eyes are focused, intense.  "If you asked me to, I would."

"You would what," Liam whispers, leaning forward just a millimetre.  

"Just, you know, be yours," Louis breathes. "If you wanted." And Liam isn't sure if it's Louis or himself that closes the gap.

 

~

 

"Fuck, hold on, one second," Louis fumbles for the light switch, fingernails grazing the wall.  After a few moments of scratching around he finds it and the lamp in the corner turns on to reveal… a shithole.  _A very clean shithole_ , Liam concedes.  But a shithole all the same, barely furnished, with piles of ratty books being used as coffee tables and chairs.  "It's home," Louis offers meekly.

"Yeah," Liam nods, and Louis pushes him against the wall. 

The kiss is all tongue and teeth getting in the way, and Liam can feel himself inhaling Louis' breath, hot and warm and heavy.  Louis grinds against him, his wet hair falling in Liam's face and his fingers splayed across Liam's ribs, pushing him back, roughly, into the crumbling drywall.  He can _feel_ Louis, hard and burning hot against his leg. "Fuck," Liam whispers, pulling his mouth away to gasp for air.  He breathes heavily for a few moments, ribs and lungs fighting against the press of Louis' hands on his chest. "This is happening," he says, more to himself than to Louis.

"Guess so?" Louis replies, panting.  His freezing-cold fingers are teasing under the edge of Liam's shirt, and Liam can feel Louis' fingernails pressing under his waistband. "Is that oka-" Louis begins, but Liam cuts him off with an upward thrust of his hips, grinding against him between two layers of sodden denim, and Louis chokes on his words.  

Louis grabs the back of Liam's head with one hand and pulls him away from the wall.  He twists them around and leads Liam, pushing him backwards, toward the couch, fingers gripped tight in his hair, teeth scraping down the side of his throat, their knees knocking together.  Liam's heels hit the edge of the couch and he lets himself fall back. 

Louis climbs onto the couch to straddle him and  their mouths crash back together.  Liam feels Louis slide his hands down his chest, unzipping his hoodie, unbuttoning his shirt, and leans forward, allowing Louis to slide them off his shoulders.  Louis, with gentle hands on either side of Liam's face, looks him in the eyes, gives him a quiet moment to process, before Liam slides his hands up Louis' ribs, lifting his t-shirt over his head.

Louis runs his hand firmly along the outline of Liam's cock.  He's so fucking hard, straining against his jeans, and Louis circles the head with his thumb.

"I, fuck," Liam gasps, pressing up against Louis' hand.  His own hands fumble with Louis' belt, his fly, but they slow when Liam realizes he has no idea what the fuck he's going to do when he gets them open.  He slides his hands back up to Louis' hips, feeling lost and over his head and he feels his face flush.  He turns his head to the side, embarrassed.  He takes a moment before trying again, but Louis pushes his hands away.

"No, no," Louis whispers, kissing him once, softly, before pulling back, his arms looped gently around Liam's neck.  "You're right, we shouldn't.  I shouldn't, I'm not - I wouldn't want to give you, not that I -"

And suddenly Liam realizes what Louis is trying to say.  " _No_ , no, that's not what I meant - I'm not afraid, of.  Like.  Catching something from you," Liam babbles, trying to explain, attempting to put Louis at ease, because _oh god, he must be so offended, I can't believe he hasn't thrown me out yet_.

"No, I know that's not what you meant - I know," Louis reassures him, placing a kiss on his jaw.  "I'm just saying _I_ don't think we should.  Not right now.  Not when I haven't - I haven't been tested in a while.  It wouldn't be right."  Louis slides stiffly off of Liam's lap, embarrassed, collapsing next to him.  Liam rests his head on Louis' shoulder.

"Okay," Liam says, lifting his chin to press his nose into the curve between Louis' jaw and his throat.  He breathes in, exhales, breathes in, before adding, "But you will.  And then we will."  And Liam knows immediately after he's said it that he's made a stupid promise.  It's a completely naive presumption, to think he'll _ever see Louis again_ , but he doesn't care.  Right now, Liam just wants to play pretend, to forget that he's leaving the country in eight hours.

Louis says nothing, just leans his cheek on top of Liam's messy, damp hair.  Liam thinks that maybe he felt Louis nod, but he can't be sure.  They sit, curled together on the couch, in silence before Louis finally sighs, "We… are very wet.  And I am very cold."  He presses a kiss to the top of Liam's head before easing up and off the sofa, the joints in his knees cracking.  He shuffles around the room, collecting things before coming back over and pulling Liam to his feet and placing a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants in his hands.  "Put these on."

While Liam changes behind him, Louis carefully tucks a sheet over the sofa, then a blanket, trying to cover the rain-soaked cushions.  "That will have to do," he sighs, surveying his work, before pulling off his jeans and pants and socks and yanking on a dry pair of boxers.  He turns around to face Liam and laughs gently when he sees the shellshocked look on his face.  "Fuck, I'm sorry, I forget that most people don't just _get naked_ like that," he apologizes.  Liam shakes his head.

"No, it's fine.  It's fine," he promises, and leans in to kiss Louis once, gently.

"What time do you have to be back at your hotel?" Louis asks, pulling Liam onto the sofa.  It takes them a few seconds to find a comfortable arrangement.  Liam's head ends up pressed into the dip between Louis' chest and shoulder, and he wonders if Louis can hear his pounding heartbeat.

"Um," Liam pulls his phone out of the pocket of his loaned sweats, activating the screen, "Four hours?  Four and a half?  Thereabouts.  I'm not packed yet."  His palms go clammy and panic sets in a little, right then, when Liam realizes that's all the time they have left.  The end of his fucking summer fling is four-and-a-half-thereabouts hours away.

"Set your alarm and send Harry a text saying you'll be there on time so he doesn't start pulling his hair out," Louis instructs.  "You're gonna sleep here, yeah?" It's halfway between a question and another instruction, and Liam taps out a quick text ( _don't feel like braving the rain gonna crash at louis' will be there in the morning don't worry_ ), nuzzles in deeper.  

That's how they stay for the rest of the night, curled on the couch, sharing kisses and whispers, fingers intertwined. 

And it's almost enough.

 

~

 

In the morning, Louis wakes Liam with coffee and gives him a grocery bag for his still-damp clothes.  He lets Liam keep his loaned pyjamas so he has something warm to head back in (secretly, Liam is thankful for the ratty t-shirt and sweatpants and the scent they hold because they'll be proof, months or maybe years from now when his memory blurs, that Louis actually existed outside of Liam's imagination).

"So," Liam says, standing in the threshold of Louis' building.  His eyes are puffy and red (he tries, unsuccessfully, to pass it off as a result of the fact that it's _quarter to five in the fucking morning_ ), and the sharpness of the morning air makes all of it seem so much more final.

"It's not goodbye," Louis promises, and he presses a paper cup of steaming coffee into Liam's hands and his lips to Liam's own.  "Have a safe trip home," he adds, pulling Liam into a tight hug, then shoos him down the steps and into the idling cab.  

Liam waits until they've made it halfway down the block, until he sees Louis stop waving and head back inside, before he lets himself break down.  Out of sympathy, the cab driver flips up his rearview window and turns on the radio.  He sobs all the way back to the hotel, where Harry greets him with grim silence and a gentle arm around his shoulder.

 

~

 

The plan is: three weeks back home in Wolverhampton before heading to Cheshire to meet up with Harry and Zayn and Niall to practice for their upcoming, couch-surfing mini-tour.  After two and a half weeks spent in bed eating gummy babies and crisps, waiting on a text from Louis, Liam thinks that maybe three weeks at home isn't enough. He needs three months to remember how to be a functional, predominantly-hetero human being again. 

Liam isn't complaining.  He didn't expect to hear back from Louis once he arrived home, and the lads have been nice about all of it, they don't rib him as much as he feels he probably deserves for falling head over heels while on holiday (though, of course, they don't know the whole story - he thinks the whole story will probably never come out.  Not until sixty years later, when the four of them are old and drunk on brandy, sharing stories by a fireplace in some hunting lodge in Oxfordshire).  And maybe the fact that Louis has disappeared off the face of the Earth is a good thing, it saves him an uncomfortable talk with his mum and, keeps him from having to worry about hiding his relationship if this tour goes well and they somehow manage to get big.

He's just… disappointed.  That's all.  And worried.  Louis had promised that he was going to stop, get a job at a pub or as a tour guide or something (or at least just stick to busking).  But Louis had also promised that to keep in touch, and aside three texts over the first week and a half since he left Paris ( _thinking about you_ and _working on it, you'll see_ and _let me know when you're leaving on tour again?_ ) Liam hasn't heard from him.  

"Dinner, Liam," his mum shouts from downstairs.  He shoves his duvet off of his lap and flings his legs over the side of his bed, wiggling his toes to get the crisp crumbs from out between.  His phone buzzes and he pats around his bed for it, unlocking it without looking (he's appreciative of that technological muscle memory all the kids have these days), then glances down and reads,

 

**_so i don't know about you but i think wolverhampton is kind of terrible compared to paris, everything-wise_**

**_  
_ **

 

and he's about to tap out an irritated to response to Niall, because of course it's Niall, the only person who's been willing to put up with his whinging lately has been Niall, until he looks at the top of the screen.  When he sees it, the word Louis hanging over the convo screen, Liam's heart catches in his throat.  He's afraid of being presumptuous, afraid that the text doesn't mean what he think it means, so his fingers stay poised over the touchscreen, frozen.  Before he's able to type a single letter his phone buzzes and the screen updates:

 

 

**_my luggage is heavy and this platform smells_**

**_  
_ **

 

_Buzz._

_  
_

 

**_so basically, come pick me up from the station, yeah?_**

**_  
_ **

 

"Oh my god," Liam whispers. His fingertips tingle and his entire body breaks out into this _warmth_ that he's never experienced, except maybe once before when he was pinned against a wall in a shitty apartment, and within seconds Liam's responded,

 

**_yes i'm coming don't move_**

**_  
_ **

 

and his socks and trousers are on, his keys are in his hand, and he's out the door, his mother shouting, "Liam, _DINNER!_ " behind him.

 

~

 

Liam finds him in the middle of the station, sitting on top of his stacked suitcases.

 

"Is it okay that I'm here?"  Louis asks warily, standing up.  He's disheveled, but he's as bright-eyed as always. 

 

"Yeah," Liam responds, as honest as he's ever been. "Yeah, Louis, it's more than okay."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> title from Lykke Li - Paris Blue but mostly i just listened to a lot of The National while writing this. if you want, [this is your (my) soundtrack.](http://youtu.be/C0jBFmc1YSs)


End file.
